Last Missions
No whistling down
the vacant corridors
of deserted malls.
A gestural flim-flam
enlightens more than recognized
as do singular imprints
that can not be read
or clogging of sluices
or thorns and burrs
or flowers shredded
or parrots that refuse to speak
and the last missions that never were;
and not alone
and not indifferent
abandoned stone
grave as shrouded furniture.
Gargoyles, Licensees, and Planes
Recycled, blown-up Christmas cards.
Tote bags mislaid.
Lipstick and rouge garishly laid on.
A misapplication to a beauty school.
A missed appointment at a hair salon.
Riddled with misgiving
a charismatic smile
as down the hall armed personnel wait.
Baggage lines - stranded
someone complains, `it's hell.'
How quiet passages can be.
The interdiction of people,
but maybe, just maybe, it will all come about.
Above, gargoyles abut,
below, licensees are bothered,
and the planes, planes - that was expected.
Nobody will have left.
The waiting areas filled,
stairs
emptied.
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